The Viscount's Hidden Treasure

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

“I don’t know about this, miss,” Betsy said as two sailors set down their trunk and portmanteaus in a cabin aboard the Wind Dancer the following morning. The men slid the door shut as they left, and Betsy grabbed for the wall as the ship subtly rolled to starboard.

“Nonsense,” Harriet said with forced brightness, widening her stance and bending one knee to remain upright. She hung her cape on a hook and refused to grab on to it for support. “This will give us time to adjust to the ship before we set sail. Find our way around, know where everything is.” Learn how to not fall on our arse, she silently added, as she shifted her weight again to keep her balance.

Flashes of memory from her childhood came to her, of running and playing on a ship’s rolling deck with ease, but once ashore continually falling down as though it was the land that pitched and rolled, not the sea.

Betsy looked a tad green about the gills, though Harriet was sure it was just the lighting. Her own stomach’s current distress was merely a disagreement with the lumpy, stale porridge they’d had for breakfast at the hotel. It would soon pass. She resumed her inspection of their new quarters.

Given the flat back wall, they must be at the stern of the ship. How lucky for her that the brig had such a nice passenger cabin, since Sheffield had said he normally carried cargo rather than passengers. She’d expected to be bunking in the hold instead of a cabin above the water line. Daylight filtered through the two small windows above the single bunk against the far wall.

To get to the bunk, one had to step around a table with four chairs. Off to the left was a wardrobe, a companion piece to the slant top desk on the opposite wall. Beneath the scratches and worn spots from decades in service, Harriet recognized the well-made lines of Chippendale. Last year, Madame Zavrina had been thrilled to find a Chippendale secretary at a used furniture merchant, at a price that would have paid Harriet’s salary for months. She gave it pride of place in the parlour to impress visitors.

Wait. A desk, in a passenger cabin?

With growing unease, Harriet peeked in the wardrobe, and found it filled with shirts, folded trousers, and other masculine garments. Ignoring Betsy’s complaints about the ship’s constant motion, Harriet stepped over to the desk and opened the slant top.

Quill and ink, compass, sextant, and a leather-bound book. The ship’s log.

Oh, good heavens, they were in the captain’s quarters!

“Come along, Betsy,” Harriet said, sliding the door open and trying to calm her pounding heart. “We won’t be staying here.”

“Thank the good Lord above,” Betsy muttered, and fell into step behind Harriet.

They pressed back against the wall to make room for crewmen carrying crates of foodstuffs to the galley, and climbed to the top deck in search of Sheffield.

He and his first mate were on the quarterdeck, directing men who were hauling on ropes, which controlled a cargo net filled with barrels, crates, and bundles of hay swinging overhead toward the open hold.

“Lord Sheffield, there’s been some mistake,” Harriet began. She started her next sentence but gave up when the crew’s singing, a chant really, drowned out her words.

“Heave away, haul away,” they sang as they worked in unison, and the full net quickly descended into the hold, disappearing from sight.

Sheffield turned to her. “You were trying to say something, Miss Chase?” The early morning sun was at his back, glinting off his gold earring, shrouding his face in shadow so all she could see clearly was his large form, draped in a caped greatcoat against the October chill.

Ah, yes, she had come up here for something. What was it again? “Your men put my things in your cabin by mistake.”

“No mistake. It’s either there or put you in the hold with the goats.” They both turned as three men walked up the gangboard, each carrying a dwarf goat. Very unhappy goats, judging by their loud bleating, especially considering the animals’ diminutive size.

“But if I’m in your quarters, where will you sleep?” Oh good heavens, he didn’t mean to share, did he? There was only one bunk, and it was already going to be a snug fit sharing it with Betsy. “With the goats?”

The first mate laughed. Sheffield stared at him, and the mate quickly turned the laugh into a cough up his sleeve.

“No, Miss Chase. I will hang a hammock with the crew.”

A shout came from the hold, and the empty net swung up and out, back over toward the dock, where men waited by stacks of crates and barrels to load the net again.

“In that case, I’ll leave you to your work.” She gave a slight curtsy and headed for the aft hatchway, out of the crew’s way.

Sheffield gave a slight bow, one corner of his mouth curved up.

The loading went on for hours. When darkness fell, lanterns were lit abovedeck and on the dock, the flickering lights making shadows dance on the cabin walls. Betsy and Harriet settled in as much as they could, hanging garments on hooks to get the wrinkles out, and set about cleaning and scrubbing the cabin, which was not nearly as dirty as she’d expected.

Eventually the scent of food wafting from the galley drew them out of the cabin. The ship’s cook had completed stowing foodstuffs and now had a kettle bubbling on the brazier. As they entered the fo’c’sle she caught a glimpse of broad shoulders and greatcoat turning the corner, heading topside with a steaming mug.

“Smells delicious.” Harriet smiled at the cook, a swarthy Italian. “What is it?”

“Is best not to ask, signorina,” he said with a suggestive lift of his thick eyebrows, ladling a bowlful and handing it to her, then another for Betsy.

“Especially best not to ask when we’ve been out to sea for a bit, miss.” The newcomer, whom Harriet recognized as the first mate, dipped a ladle to fill his pewter mug with soup, then sat at the drop leaf table to drink it. “Luigi here can get a bit creative, if’n you know what I mean.” He took a swig of soup and winked at Betsy, who tittered.

Harriet briefly debated the proper thing to do, which would be to carry their meal back to their cabin. It’s what Sir Percival would expect.

Actually, Sir Percival would have expected her to wait in the cabin until Betsy brought her a tray.

Harriet turned partway back toward the passageway. Betsy, however, had already seated herself across from the sailor, her soup untouched, and begun questioning him about the tattoo visible on his forearm. Shockingly, not only had he removed his coat, he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves as well.

Equally intrigued by the design and the explanation—involving savage natives, sharp sticks, and octopus ink—after a slight pause Harriet sat beside Betsy and dug into her meal.

“I’m Thaddeus, by the way,” the first mate later said, refilling his mug. “But everyone just calls me Jonesy.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jones.” Should she stand up and curtsy or hold out her hand under the unusual circumstances? Madame Zavrina had never included in her instructions the proper way to greet common sailors. Jonesy tugged on his forelock, raised his mug toward Betsy in salute, and silently headed topside.

The loading continued long past dusk, the men working with a seemingly endless stream of chants and songs punctuated with shouts and swearing. Betsy mended hems while Harriet pretended to sew, darning the same stocking for hours, listening to the work going on, until it grew too dark to sew even with a lamp hung above the table, and they turned in for the night.

* * *

Something changed. Harriet opened her eyes and looked about the cabin. Gone were the flickering shadows cast by the lanterns on the dock, filtering through the tiny windows above the bunk. Complete darkness engulfed the cabin. Silence reigned, broken only by the gentle creak of wood and ropes.

Harriet sat up, and then grabbed the edge of the bunk as the ship rolled, more than when they’d first boarded.

They were underway!

Her heart pounded. They were on their way! After so many months of worry and yearning, so many sleepless nights, she was actually, finally, really on her way to collect the treasure, get her dowry, and get on with the rest of her life. Sheffield must have kept his crew working around the clock in order to leave with this turn of the tide. How fortuitous that he fell in with her plans so readily.

She lay back, ignoring the snores of Betsy beside her, and pictured what form the treasure would have. Gold, silver, and precious gems? No, Papa would have carried home small things like that. Priceless paintings or other large works of art? She drifted to sleep with a smile on her face, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship as they sailed down the Thames, toward the English Channel, Spain, and her future.

* * *

Nick stood on the quarterdeck beside the tiller, keeping a gentle grip on the weathered wood as they sailed toward the mouth of the Thames. Following the signal from the bow lookout, he steered slightly to starboard to avoid ramming a couple of skiffs whose occupants were too busy rowing upriver to notice the ship bearing down on them, then back to port to stay in the main channel. It felt good to be on the water again, on the deck with a slight roll under his feet. Even if they were still in the tame waters of the Thames, they were headed to sea. To adventure. To something. If the breeze stayed fresh they’d be in the Channel by morning, and Spain was less than a week away after that.

Before Miss Chase had entered his life with her quest, since the war had ended and the Crown no longer needed his services, things had become so boring he’d considered drastic measures like transporting goods for money. The Wind Dancer had started her life, after all, as a smuggling vessel. Grandfather had loaded her with silks, brandy, tea, and who-knows-what other contraband, to restore the family coffers and stock the cellar.

Nick had refused to join the Navy, refused the midshipman’s position his father, Adam, had arranged and tried to force him to accept. Using Wind Dancer to capture enemy vessels and pilfer their cargoes as a privateer during the war had seemed a more fitting way for Nick to carry on the family legacy interrupted by his self-righteous father.

Within the fortnight Nick would have the treasure Adam had taken such pains to hide from him, to deprive him of. It wasn’t enough the pious hypocrite had donated most of the estate’s cash to a slew of charities and the church, leaving little for Nick to inherit. What else had Adam kept secret from him, tried to deny him? Well, Nick would show him. He’d find that treasure with Miss Chase and thoroughly enjoy spending every single penny Adam hadn’t wanted him to have.

“Anything amiss, Cap’n?”

“What? No, everything’s fine.” Nick loosened his white-knuckled grip on the tiller and patted his second mate on the shoulder. “The stars are out, the moon is bright, we’ve a fair wind, and we’re off on a quest for a damsel in distress. What could be better, eh?”

The crew knew only that they were transporting Miss Chase on her search for something bequeathed by her dead father. No whisper of the T word.

Instead of pious charities, Nick knew several w****s who’d appreciate a donation from his share of whatever treasure they found.

That should make his father roll over in his grave.

“Care to share the joke, Cap’n?”

“Not yet, Bos’n. Not yet.”